


The Winter Ball

by rachelrose



Series: Sherlock Reader One-Shots [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Dancing, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Floor Sex, Gryffindor John, Gryffindor Mary, Loss of Virginity, POV Second Person, Potter!Lock, Ravenclaw Reader, Ravenclaw Sherlock, Reader-Insert, Room of Requirement, School Dances, Slytherin Irene, Smut, Teen Romance, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Virgin!Sherlock, teen!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-27
Updated: 2014-11-27
Packaged: 2018-02-26 22:58:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2669552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rachelrose/pseuds/rachelrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hogwarts is holding a Winter Ball this year, and John is taking Mary. Sherlock is forced to attend the dance, but he doesn't have a date. Solution? You're Mary's best friend, and you don't have a date either. Thus, John decides to set you two up on a blind double-date. You fall hard when Sherlock shows you something impossible. What might happen between two teenagers when they find themselves hiding where no one would ever think to look?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Winter Ball

**Author's Note:**

> You can find the Polyvore set for this story [here.](www.polyvore.com/set?.embedder=3167544&.svc=copypaste&id=141395211)
> 
> Enjoy!

“I think McGonagall just really has a thing for public humiliation.”

“Or dancing. You know, one of the two.”

“Boys, _boys_ ,” Irene scolds jokingly. “So,” she continues. “Who are _you_ taking to the ball?”

Sherlock looks taken aback. “ _Me_ ? I thought  _you_ were my date!”

“ _Heavens,_ no. No offence – you're not really my type.”

“Why am I going, again?”

John grips him by the shoulders and shakes him roughly. “ _No –_ you are  _not_ backing out on me, Sherlock Holmes. Understood?”

“You don't need me, John. Especially not as a third wheel.”

It's as if a theoretical light bulb appears over John's head in a  _eureka_ moment. Irene mumbles to Sherlock, “Oh, that can't possibly be good.”

Excitedly, John says, “Mary was saying that she couldn't convince her best friend to come to the ball. Maybe it could be a blind double-date, yeah? Sherlock?”

Sherlock reverts into his “Mind Palace” state, searching for who this friend of Mary's might be.  _Must've deleted her. Likely deemed her irrelevant and unimportant._ “Well... w-who is she?”

“She's in your house – a pretty little Ravenclaw girl, same year as us.”

Irene interjects. “Wait, hold on just a second – Ravenclaw girls aren't  _pretty._ If they were, they wouldn't be Ravenclaws.”

“...says the irresistible Slytherin girl.”

“Oh, quiet, you!”

Sherlock looks a bit spaced out. “As if I care so much about  _pretty._ ”

John smirks. “She's a quiet one, but she's definitely clever. I'll ask her.”

 

* * *

 

A few days later, John joins Sherlock for lunch in the dining hall wearing a shit-eating grin.

“So guess who's agreed to be your date to the winter ball?”

“John, you're being ridiculously obtuse. It's not very flattering.”

John laughs, unscathed by Sherlock's seething tone. “Oh, just you wait. You'll be thanking me soon enough.”

 

* * *

 

“Okay, you can put these back on.” Mary hands you your glasses. “ _Ta-da!_ ” she sing-songs, bringing your attention to the mirror in front of you.

“Have you conjured me up a new face or something?”

Mary giggles. “Nope – it's just the magic of simple muggle make-up.”

You can't believe the sight in front of you. Your eyes have been lined with black, your eyelids coloured a simple neutral shade to compliment your gown. Your cheeks have been dusted with a pretty light pink blush, your lips painted nude as well. Your wavy, unruly dark hair has been pulled to the side. You look...  _strange_ .

“Well?”

“I can't believe this...” you trail off, awe-struck by your own transformed appearance. 

“Come on, I need your help with my dress. Zip me.”

 

* * *

 

Irene was right. Ravenclaws aren't  _pretty_ – which is now evident as John and Mary stand with Sherlock at the bottom of the stairs, watching you descend the staircase in all of your glory. Sherlock looks on in awe, his composure fumbling for just a moment. You're wrapped in a light brown flowy fabric, held like a goddess in a strapless gown. The front of the dress is adorned with muted gold jewels, highlighting the cleavage that you've never really noticed before. Your heels are sparkly – the same colour as the jewels on your chest. Your earrings come from your mum – lovely diamonds dangling beige pearls. You've never felt this good in your whole life. Especially with the way your date is looking at you right now.

_ No,  _ Sherlock resolves.  _Definitely not pretty. 'Pretty' doesn't even begin to describe the image of this girl coming towards me._

When you reach the bottom of the stairs, you curtsey and introduce yourself, taking Sherlock's proffered arm.

The ball begins with a toast (“to dressing up and dancing the night away”) before the dancing begins. Sherlock is itching to dance, but John and Mary haven't even gotten up yet.  _Screw it._ He stands up quickly and holds out a hand to you. “Dance with me.”

And, by god, can this boy dance.

This is likely the first time in your life that you've been so bloody  _turned on_ by a real boy – one that isn't from a book. And my, is it a heady feeling. You feel a sweet tension in your gut, burning in the most lovely way whenever he touches you. As you dance, you feel absolutely weightless – like lust is a wind carrying you so swiftly across the dance floor. And look at him – he's just a marvel. He's like a piece of art, perfectly sculpted with an eye for aesthetics – the final piece being his unparalleled mind. After all, there's something particularly inhuman about his chiselled features. Nobody's hair just falls the right way like his does. His alabaster skin radiates like moonlight, his elegance verging on unnatural given how easily dancing comes to him. And that voice. Oh god, that voice. Like brilliant acoustics and a perfectly tuned cello, like vibrations at just the right frequency to scratch the itch inside of you. A voice absolutely dripping with sex and passion – no one should hold that much power.

In an abrupt move, he pulls you to his chest, forcing you to meet his gaze, to watch his pupils dilate, to listen to both of you panting in harmony. He looks into your eyes for a long moment before muttering a quick, “Follow me.” And just like that, the two of you are running from the centre of the dance floor, hand in hand, giggling like lunatics. He leads you down dark, vacant hallways before stopping in front of what looks to be nothing but an empty stone wall. He paces for a moment, massaging his temples, and you quickly grow concerned.  _Has he gone mad?_ But in another instant, he's walking at the wall full-force, dragging you by the hand. You don't have enough time to ask what in the hell he thinks he's doing before the two of you faze through the wall.  _No. Freaking. Way._

He grins devilishly at your obvious shock. “H-how the hell did you find this place?”

“Easy,” he says simply. “The Room of Requirement appears to those in dire need of the space. I _really_ needed a secret place to do this –“

And then, he's kissing you. Deeply, playfully. Just like that. The embodiment of human perfection has dragged you inside of a mythical room to snog you senseless, and you really can't find it in yourself to question it.

The kiss quickly deepens, holding more passion and heat than you could've imagined. He pulls away just slightly, saying, “Never before have I paid much attention to someone's looks. That is, until tonight, when I saw you for the first time.” His voice flows through you. You bite back a whimper. He bites your lip.

“I... I don't always look like this.” You can't help but doubt yourself.

He looks at you as if you've just said the dumbest thing he's ever heard. The expression softens slowly, as he realizes that you're not being stupid – that you genuinely believe that all he sees is the make-up and the dress. “No, and I'm not arguing that.” You're beyond confused. “God, you're lovely. You're like... my muse – the one that I think of whenever I'm composing or being particularly clever – it's you, I think. But you're real.”

You chuckle sadly to yourself. “Oh, I doubt that, Mr Holmes. Unless your muse has glasses and wild hair and freckles, I think you've got the wrong girl.”

“When I look at you, I'm reminded of her. She gives me the same type of feeling, you know.” He lowers the two of you to the floor, where there is suddenly a large blanket covering the cold stone tiles. “Poeticism – that sort of rubbish.”

You smile softly and trace the line of his jaw with your fingertips. You manoeuvre so that you're on top of him, kissing his neck. The groan that this evokes is more powerful than you'd suspect. His hands grip your waist – innocent. Your hands wander across his chest, and you revel in the feeling of making Sherlock Holmes pant open-mouthed as you slowly take him apart. Then, he surprises you. He slowly raises his hips to yours, showing evidence of his want in the hardened member in his trousers. You can't help but gasp and whimper as his bulge lines up perfectly with your core. You meet his gaze, your own eyes heavy-lidded, and with a glint in his eye he flips you over so that he's on top of you.

He's grinning now, happy to be the one in control. This is how it's meant to be: Sherlock Holmes making you slowly devolve into a wanton mess. You try to bite back your moans until he grips your chin and says, “None of that – I want to hear you, love.” And then, he grinds his pelvis to yours, and you obey his wishes – you moan with complete abandon.

“Wh-what are we doing, Sherlock?”

He pulls back, his face a mask of concern. “Whatever you want to do, love.” He plants soft kisses along your collarbone. “It's up to you.”

“Have you ever, you know – have you ever done this before?”

“Have you?”

“I asked first.”

“Humour me,” he says.

You huff. “Twice. With the same person. I'm not a whore, I swear.”

He smiles wide at you. “I'm not judging you.”

“Now you.”

He concedes. “I, uh – no. I haven't.”

“Really?” You don't even try to mask your shock.

“Never really liked anyone enough before.” You're unsure of how to proceed. “But you, however...” he trails off as he lowers his lips to yours again, hungry this time.

“Clothes,” you half-whisper, and he pulls you to your feet. He removes his jacket and begins working on his shirt buttons as you kick off your shoes. He undresses rather quickly, down to his bare feet and trousers by the time you turn around and ask him to help you with your dress. He freezes to watch you as you slowly step out of the dress, leaving you in your frilly special-occasion knickers (you only wore them because they make you feel good). You turn around, covering your breasts with your hands, and slowly approach him. “Quit staring,” you scold, as you reach for the button on his trousers. Your nipples touch his bare chest and he exhales slowly, eyes closed. Soon, he's left in nothing but his pants.

For someone as inexperienced as he claims to be, he's a natural expert at worshipping the female form. From your sensitive nipples to your ticklish sides to the place just below your jaw, he kisses and touches you just right. Even as he grazes the damp front of your knickers, he looks to you for approval. You nod in assent as he plays with the waistband, quickly removing the garment to begin his exploration. Fingers graze your core, mapping out every part of you, before he slips half of one finger inside of you, testing the waters. You beg, “ _More,_ ” until he gets the idea and allows you to show him how you like to be touched. He catches on quickly and begins working two of his long, dexterous finger inside of you, finding the spot that makes your toes curl and working it just right. Soon, you're panting and begging him, but he won't relent, keeping you on the edge of orgasm. Taking a chance, you grip his erection through his pants, causing him to freeze completely. He gives a silent cry and you feel him pulse in your hand.

“I... I'm ready, Sherlock. Please. I need you.” You slip your hand under the waistband of his pants to feel skin-on-skin. He moans despite his attempts at self-control.

“What do you need?” His breath is laboured, and his voice cracks.

“I need you, Sherlock. Please, I just – I need you inside of me.”

He slowly nods, but quickly realizes the fault in their situation: there are no condoms in the Room of Requirement. With a knowing look, you crawl over toward where your clutch lies on the floor. Mary insisted you bring a condom – you thought it was overly optimistic of her. You hold it up between your fingers and his eyes light up.

“How should we do this?” he asks hesitantly, his inexperience showing through. He takes off his pants. _Holy shit._ You shouldn't be surprised that his cock is mouthwatering, just like the rest of him.

“Come here,” you say as you lie back, getting into the position you were in before. “Like this. You get to control the speed and rhythm to your liking,” you say as you tear open the condom and roll it onto him. Even this contact makes him bite back a groan. You smile. “It gets so much better, I swear.”

He kisses you soundly before lining himself up with your entrance, and with a deep breath, he slowly pushes himself in.

It's like all the air has evacuated your lungs, and you lie still for several moments, stuck between the burning sensation and the impending orgasm. His face shows about the same, mouth agape, except he looks into your eyes like you're the greatest thing he's ever seen, clinging to you almost as if he fears you'll float away. Tacitly, you encourage him to move, and when he does, it's like the roof is lifted off to reveal the night sky and the stars are shining so bright that you can see each individual one where it sits up above. It's like finally getting something you've craved for so long. It's a consummation, of sorts – but you're just kids. You've known each other for a few hours at the most. You can't possibly be in love. But this feeling – this high unlike anything you've ever felt before – it feels spectacular. Who cares what constitutes as “love.”

Every other sound from Sherlock is either a grunt or a moan, and all you manage to say is _oh god, Sherlock, harder,_ and _faster._ Everything else that comes from your mouth is either a whimper or a prayer to no one in particular. At a sharp change of angle, you're crying out as he hits the spot inside of you that makes you see stars. Determined, he pounds into you, his thrusts growing slower and harder.

He stutters, “I'm not – going to last –“

You touch his face and kiss him sweetly, whispering, “Me neither.”

It's you who comes first, bringing him over the edge with you. With a few sputtering thrusts, he slams into you one last time, grinding his cock inside of you as deep as it could possibly go. It's so perfect that it has you riding another wave of orgasm, longer and more powerful than any you've ever experienced before. It's absolute bliss.

You're not sure how soon he pulls out and disposes of the condom. When he lies back down, you curl into his side as he wraps an arm around you. You're not sure who conjured up the blanket, but you're thankful for the shelter and the warmth.

“You think we can stay here tonight?”

“You and I both know that we can't,” he replies.

“Shame. I like cuddling like this.” He smiles and kisses you on the head. “It's okay. I can probably dodge Mary altogether if I can sneak back into the Ravenclaw common room unnoticed. She's a Gryffindor, after all.”

“So is John, actually. You can I can walk back together before curfew.”

“We have some time to spare,” you say with a smile on your face. You kiss him sweetly, and he hums in appreciation. “More cuddling, more kissing... wouldn't want to cut that short.”

“ _Never,_ ” he says jokingly, rolling onto his side to kiss you. You could get lost forever this way – wrapped up in Sherlock Holmes.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm never able to finish writing stories quickly. This one was started and finished within a day. That's an accomplishment for me, of sorts.
> 
> Also, all editing is done by yours truly. Is it glaringly obvious that I'm American?
> 
> So, what do you guys think? Should I keep writing these one-shots?


End file.
